He carried her through the entrance hall and up the stairs. Visualizing the windows as he’d so often viewed them from the street, he set off down the corridor, counting doors until he arrived at her apartment.
“How do you know which one is mine?” she asked, as he shouldered open the door to her sitting room.
“Lucky guess.”
He covered the carpet in three paces, swept her into the bedchamber, and fell with her onto the bed. A heap of white pillows and downy quilts sucked them in like a snowdrift. Julian sputtered at a bit of lace in his mouth and rolled onto his side, facing her. What with all the white, and the hour of noon approaching, the room was wild with sunlight.
“Oh, it’s dreadful, isn’t it?” she said, batting away clouds of white bedding. “I had it done up this way when I was seventeen, and it’s never been redecorated.”
He huffed at a tiny feather floating between them, then gave her a wolfish grin. “Very virginal.”
All the better to ravish you on, my dear. This bed was like his most depraved adolescent fantasy come to life. Taking a well-bred lady on a cloud of white lace; pushing his crude, baseborn cock into her immaculate, tightly guarded virtue. And this was even better than the fantasy, because Lily belonged to him. She was his wife. Her immaculate, tight … God, he just knew she would be so tight … virtue was his. Not for the taking, but for the keeping. Forever.
It was the most heart-tugging, frightening, and flat-out arousing notion he’d ever contemplated. His trousers pulled snug over his groin.
“Then it’s still appropriate, I suppose. I mean … that is to say …” Her face went pink against the white linen. “You know there haven’t been others.”
Dear, sweet Lily. He smoothed the hair from her brow, forcing himself to rein in his lustful impulses for the moment. “Are you anxious?”
“No. Well, only a little. But it’s a pleasant sort of anxious.”
“You needn’t worry. This is going to be amazing. Spectacular.”
She laughed. “Perhaps I should fault the arrogance of that statement, but I’m rather comforted by it, truthfully.”
“It’s not arrogance, it’s a promise. This is going to be wonderful,” he insisted, “and I will tell you why. Because if at any time, you are feeling something less than indescribable bliss, you are going to tell me so, and I will stop at once. Do you understand? I would never hurt you.”
She nodded. “What a very husbandly thing to say.” With a little gasp, she bolted straight up in bed. As if she’d just now received an express notifying her of the fact, she grinned down at him and said, “I’m your wife, Julian. I’m Mrs. Bellamy.”
Her eyes sparkled with delight, sending bright shards of happiness to pierce his heart. She’d never looked so beautiful.
“No,” he said, struggling to sit up next to her, “you are still the daughter of a marquess. You are Mrs. Nothing. You are, and will always be, Lady Lily Bellamy.”
“Heavens.” Her hand went to her brow. “Another L sound in my name. That’s four now.”
“Too late. You can’t take it back.”
“Are you sure?” She toyed with his cravat. “You still haven’t kissed me, you know.”
He slowly leaned in, giving her ample time to retract that teasing smile to a soft, luscious pout. Their noses touched. She inhaled a quick breath. And just the instant before he pressed his lips to hers, she whispered, “I love you so.”
He covered the precious words with his mouth, needing to drink them in. Sipping at each of her lips in turn, then delving lightly with his tongue. She reached for him, curling her fingers in his hair, and as he deepened the kiss, she moaned in the back of her throat.
Desire swept him like a flame through dry bracken. It took everything he had to hold to that promise he’d just made, and not simply push her back against the counterpane and sink into her at once. But he was determined to make this every bit as good for her as it was doubtless going to be for him.
He left her mouth and began a thorough investigation of the spot beneath her ear. Nuzzling first, then tasting with lips and tongue. She was so delicious, he couldn’t resist a playful bite.
She gave a sharp cry.
He pulled away. “Have I hurt you?”
“No.” She looked puzzled. “Why do you ask?”
“You … you made a noise.”
“Oh, did I?” She smiled sheepishly. “I suppose because I liked it.”
Right. He needed her under him, now. His hands gathered fistfuls of billowing white lace.
“Now who’s anxious?” she asked, skimming a teasing touch along his jaw. “Last night in the hack, I’m positive I was making all manner of sounds. You weren’t so concerned then.”
“Last night was different.” Last night, he was different. Julian wasn’t sure how to explain it. In that carriage, he’d been a thief, taking what didn’t belong to him under cover of night. Today, he was a bridegroom, who’d just pledged to cherish and protect this woman all the days of his life. The difference was so profound, it was … well, it was night and day.
“Let’s settle on a signal,” she suggested. “A word. If I’m uncomfortable or in pain, I’ll say that word. With all other noises, you can assume the best. Do you agree?”
He nodded. “What word?”
She considered. “How about ‘spider’?”
“Spider?” He couldn’t help but laugh. “Who wants to think of spiders in the throes of passion?”
“No one, of course. That’s why it’s ideal.”
He shook his head. “Something else, if you please, with fewer legs.”
“Very well.” Her eyes wandered past him, toward the connecting parlor. “What about ‘armchair’? Perfectly harmless, and only four legs.”
“That won’t do. What happens when you beg me—and no mistake, someday you will beg me—‘Julian, make love to me right here in the armchair’? The moment will be ruined.”
Her eyebrow arched to a reproachful angle. She knew she was being teased. But here was a tried-and-true test of temperament—when confronted with sharp wit, did a person retreat or parry? Julian could never be friends with people who fell into the former category.
And Lily’s response was the reason he adored her, beyond expression.
“Well, then,” she said, working loose his cravat. “If that’s the case, we rule out so many options. Armchair, sofa, carpet, bathtub, dressing table, dining table, wardrobe. No good, any of those.” She pulled the unknotted cravat free, and the slow glide of linen against his neck made his body pulse with need.
Her fingers went to the buttons of his waistcoat. “Nor can we use coach, carriage, hackney, landau, or anything of that nature. Oh, and nature! We must rule out grass, meadow, hillock, haystack, grotto, lake … Really, Julian, there are very few words left.” Her hands slipped inside his open waistcoat, and she skimmed her palms over the thin lawn of his shirt. She was teasing him, with words and touch, and he couldn’t have loved it more.
“Turn around,” he said hoarsely, adding a hand motion for clarity’s sake.
She obeyed, and he applied his fingers to the column of fabric-covered buttons chasing down her slender back.
“What about ‘mirror’?” she said, smiling into the floor-length looking glass across the room.
“Minx.” He caught her gaze in the reflection. “Absolutely not.”
She laughed as he returned to the task of undoing her many, many tiny buttons. There might have been a hundred, and he wouldn’t have complained. With each closure he eased free, he kissed the patch of newly revealed skin. When he ran his tongue down the valley between her shoulder blades, she shivered and moaned.
“Bedpost?” she gasped, gripping the same as he drew the bodice down her shoulders, revealing her stays and tissue-thin chemise.
He let a swift yank on her laces serve as his curt refusal there. After undoing the tapes of her corset, he put his hands on her bared shoulders and turned her back to face him. Her loosened bodice gaped at the neckline, and he slid a hand inside to cup her breast, rubbing his thumb back and forth over her hardened nipple. He bent his lips to the creamy expanse of her décolletage.
She threw her head back, tilting her face to the ceiling as he kissed and nibbled her throat. “I am,” she breathed, “almost afraid to suggest ‘chandelier.’”
He chuckled against her skin.
“Plaster,” she blurted out, pushing on his shoulder.
He straightened. “What?”
“Plaster.” Her eyes rolled to the ceiling. “‘Plaster’ is the perfect word. Not offensive, not suggestive.”
“Plaster,” he repeated. “Very well.” He cupped her cheek in his hand. “Lily, I adore you.”
Julian had to admit, he’d harbored worries in the dark recesses of his mind, about how to make this different. As in, the actual act. He felt the need to mark this time apart from every sexual experience he’d ever had before. He’d even searched his imagination for an as-yet-untried lovemaking position, much as he thought it prudent to begin with the basics.
But with her teasing, Lily had given him exactly what he needed. He could safely say he’d never discussed spiders and plaster in bed before, not with anyone.
And as he kissed her again, taking her mouth with possessive, unrestrained passion, he realized it wouldn’t even matter if he had. They’d filled this moment with so much genuine affection, there was no room for his sordid past to intrude.
This was different because this was Lily.
This was different because this was love.
And he needed to love her, now. Then again later. As many times as she’d permit. He tugged down her bodice and chemise to expose one breast, dipping his head to tongue the plump globe and taut, berry-red nipple. Drawing the nub into his mouth, he suckled with steady intent. Moan for me, Lily.
“Oh,” she sighed. “Oh, Julian.”
“Oh, Juuuuuuulian,” Tartuffe squawked.
Startled, Julian jerked back his head. Unaware of the interruption, Lily picked the same moment to seek a kiss. They bumped noses, then recoiled from one another in pain. Deuce it all, now he’d truly hurt her.
“What is it?”
“Damned bird,” he grated out, pressing his fingers to his nose to check for blood, at the same time surveying her face for swelling. “Where is he?”
“In my sitting room,” she answered ruefully, flopping back onto the mattress and covering her face with both hands. “Perhaps he’s jealous.”
Julian scrambled from the bed and darted through the connecting door into Lily’s private parlor, gathering the birdcage with one hand and scooping up a stray lap blanket with the other. How he rued ever gifting her with the ridiculous creature. With determined haste, he shouldered open the door and marched the parrot down the corridor toward the staircase.
“There you are,” he said, setting the cage on the top step. “Holling will find you eventually.”
The bird chided, “Guilty, guilty.”
“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth. “Yes, I know. Stop reminding me.” He shook out the blanket and prepared to drape it over the cage.
“Oh, Juuulian,” the parrot shrieked. “Guilty, guilty! Mr. James Bell.”
His heart stalled. His hands froze in place, suspending the flannel drape in midair. “What the devil did you just say?”
Blue and green wings stretched. “Thank you, that will be all.”
“You miserable feathered …” Julian growled with frustration and tugged at his hair. It was that or pluck the parrot bare, plume by impertinent plume.